Insecure’s Yvonne Orji: TV Bad Girl, IRL Good Girl

On HBO’s breakout show, Yvonne Orji plays the sexually liberated best friend. In the real world, she’s a devout Christian who doesn’t curse and is saving her virginity for marriage. According to her, there’s great comedy in both lives.

A man who interviews celebrities for a living sits across from Yvonne Orji and, with a straight face, asks if she can “still get wet.” Adult virginity is such a foreign concept to radio host DJ Envy, one-third of Power 105.1’s popular morning show The Breakfast Club, that he doesn’t know vaginal lubrication has nothing to do with whether or not a woman has ever had sex.

The Big V is not a subject the Insecure star is afraid to broach. It’s actually served as fodder for her stand-up and motivated Rock Your Stance, the company she founded in 2008, which sells neon tees and tanks that read: “Keepin’ It Locked ’Til I Get That Rock.” Because she is happy to “educate” people about being a 33-year-old virgin (and has the patience of Job), she laughs at DJ Envy’s query before politely schooling him.

Orji transforms into the sexier version of herself as Molly, the sexually liberated best friend of Issa (Issa Rae) on HBO’s breakout comedy. Some find it odd that a woman who’s never had sex portrays it so well on screen. But it’s called acting for a reason. “In my mind I’m like, remember that time when we were all virgins before your first time?” she says from her temporary digs in Lagos, Nigeria. “Were you normal? Were you regular? Cool. Copy.” Orji is far too polite and goofy to ever hint at being tired of the virginity question, but I ask her how many times she’s been asked, and she giggles loudly.

Orji consulted with God before deciding if Molly was the right fit for her, considering her devoutly Christian beliefs. She doesn’t curse, for example. Yet the first-generation Nigerian-American actress felt Molly was a character she knew, despite the two having at least the one major difference. One heart-to-heart with God and five auditions later, she decided to freely pour her talents into Molly. Transparent conversations with wardrobe and directors about what her sex scenes would look like happened early on so that everyone was on the same page. “I watched my sex scenes, and I’m like, ‘Okay. I can stand by that,’” she says before noting that a scene like the season-one finale, where Lawrence (Jay Ellis) and Tasha (Dominique Perry) are getting it on in doggy style, would’ve been an automatic no.

It’s a week before Christmas the first time we chat. Every couple of minutes, Orji is cackling wildly, grinning from ear to ear, causing us both to laugh loud enough to drown out the honking horns filling the air from the two continents separating us. Both represent the duality she’s navigated her entire life. Any assumptions that she’s a prude are dispelled quickly. Her buoyant spirit is infectious. Even when she talks about her conversations with God, she’s still laughing.

“I don’t look at God as some boring dude in the sky that tells me what to do all day,” she says. “I legitimately be like, ‘Yo, you know what, G, that’s crazy how that happened. That’s dope. You know you the real MVP.’”

Orji went against the grain in pursuit of a career in entertainment. She was born in Nigeria, raised in Maryland, and her parents expected a return on investment on her education to be delivered in the form of an M.D. Two degrees later, her family thought medical school was still on the table until she returned to the States from Liberia. She’d quit her job in public health, where she worked on HIV prevention.

Location: Gracias Madre, West Hollywood

“I told my mom it’ll take me eight years to be a doctor,” she says. Turns out she only needed seven to land a recurring role on a comedy series. “So glory to Jesus.” Orji started out doing clean room comedy nights in New York City before taking a job as an artist of residence at the University of Richmond. Eventually she moved to L.A. for a writer’s internship, landed a couple small guest roles, and wrote a pilot for First GEN, a semi-autobiographical sitcom about a Nigerian girl pursuing comedy in lieu of medical school. But when those opportunities dried up, she found herself once again conversing with her homie, Jesus. She told him if it didn’t happen soon, she’d have to move back to Maryland. Insecure was the answer to her prayers.

“I think if you’re black, even if you’re a black person that grew up mostly in the suburbs and you’re well assimilated into white culture, you innately will do it,” she says. “Obama code-switches. We’ve all seen the clip of him shaking everybody’s hand; then when he got to the black person, he daps them.” But on that night, she witnessed a rare glimpse of the first black president setting aside his proclivity to code-switch because he was among his own. He told the budding stars that he “loved the show” and loved what “women of color in the creative space” are doing.

Orji’s black female comedian predecessors like Sommore, Mo’Nique, and Lunell were comfortable in explicit sexual jokes because it was real to them. White female comedians of today—Nikki Glaser and Amy Schumer, for example—have followed the same sex-positive shtick. But that’s not Orji’s lived experience, and you won’t find it in her material.

“When it comes to black female comedians, it’s like, if you’re not overweight, are you funny? There’s rules, like, you can’t be skinny and pretty and funny,” she says. “I’m all three, sorry to break it to you. Then it’s like, if you are going to be a black comedian, then you gotta talk about who you gave head to or who you didn’t give head to—’cause that’s important. That doesn’t relate to me. The point of reference for these jokes are very limited. I’m just gonna talk about being Nigerian-American. I’m gonna talk about being single. I’m gonna talk about what happened to me on the train today. I’m gonna talk about so many other things that, as a comic, you’re able to talk about because you see the world in sarcasm.”

By the time we talk again, the New York heat is sweltering. The season two premiere was less than a week away, and it comes up again: Is Orji exhausted by the subject of her virginity? “I talk about how God has a sense of humor, because I’m a virgin whose last name is Orji,” she says. “I get that some people may think I’m a unicorn, but I know better. I know so many other people who are walking the same walk. We’re normal like the rest of y’all. We like to turn up like the rest of y’all. We just have things we’re not doing.”

Naturally, two thirty-something black women chatting inevitably steers toward the topic of dating. It’s hard enough for a black chick to date in L.A., the land where men say things like they’re looking for a chick that’s “exotic.” Couple that with being a virgin and, well, I was a little concerned. “I always say my Christianity and my virginity don’t limit options,” she says. “I think that they refine my options.”

Advertisement

“When the show came out, all these articles were like, Yvonne Orji, TV’s new bae. I was like, Who they talking about? They not talking about me! Who hasn’t had a date in how many months? Me. Who ain’t been nowhere? Who hasn’t been to anybody’s Nobu on anybody else’s dime? Me,” she recalls. “But personally, I literally just resolved like, ‘You know, God, it’s me and you. We ridin’ out. It took me ten years to make it in my career. If it takes me a decade to find the right love, I know it’s going to be sweet. Please don’t let it take a decade, ’cause I’mma hurt you.’”

Since 1957, GQ has inspired men to look sharper and live smarter with its unparalleled coverage of style, culture, and beyond. From award-winning writing and photography to binge-ready videos to electric live events, GQ meets millions of modern men where they live, creating the moments that create conversations.